Hush Little Riddler
by theBalance
Summary: Crappy title, I know but it's all I can think of. I'm attempting to write "Hush" from the Riddler's point of view. It may take a while since I'm gonna have to Re-read and dissect Hush frame-by-frame and do some epic research. No OCs except walk-ins.
1. Prologue

**¿-? Prologue ¿-?**

No one is safe from it. Everything causes it. Nothing prevents it. Of course I speak of the dreaded disease we refer to as 'cancer'. Though, in all honesty, I believe 'cancer' is just a word doctors use to say you're screwed. They don't know what it is; they don't know what causes it. They never will. Cigarettes, television, cellular telephones, microwave ovens, coffee, alcohol, chocolate. It's all just speculation: multiple guesses to a medical riddle that has no definitive answer.

Some people think that the first thought that goes through one's mind when one is diagnosed is 'Why me?' I can tell you firsthand that's a lie.

"You're shitting me, right? Cancer? Are you sure you know how to read an MRI?" Four out of the five of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross' stages of grief had appeared to hit me at once. All bar 'acceptance.'

"Mr. Wynne, please," Doctor Thomas Eliott raised his hands in a gentle calming gesture. "Your reaction is by all means acceptable given the news, however, if I may ask you to keep your voice down and the profanity to a minimum. There are other patients-"

"OTHER PATIENTS?" I must admit, those two little words may have nudged me over the edge a little. "You just gave me a fucking death sentence and you're asking me to consider your OTHER bloody PATIENTS?"

"Mr. Wynne," Dr Eliott repeated. "If you would let me finish…"

Reluctantly, I returned to my seat. The poor bugger was sweating like a pig on a spit. Apparently my little outburst had frightened him a little.

"Mr. Wynne – Arthur," he said again. And if I may remark, I have never heard any of my assumed names used in such quick succession before, even when I'd had my surname legally changed to Nigma. "This tumor is very small, with a simple dietary regime and some chemotherapy, it may fade and we may be able to add several years to your, erm life… expect…an…cy."

"No."

"No?"

"No chemo. No diet. No change. Let me see that scan."

He passed the film over without much hassle. I had never seen any sort of tumor on any sort of scan before, but the ominous void that nestled in the nook between my cerebellum and my brain stem was unmistakable. Eliott was right – the thing was tiny, not much larger than a ping-pong ball. It looked almost… innocent. The sort of innocence that a young kitten conveys the moment before it begins clawing its way up your leg.

"You still wish to refuse the treatment, Arthur?" Dr. Eliott said quietly after giving me a few minutes to let everything sink in. "It's heavy news, I know that, but cancer is not something to be taken lightly. You can't just push it aside – Out of sight out of mind doesn't work when the problem is physically inside your mind."

"How?" I answered quietly, and when he merely gave me a puzzled look I elaborated: "How do you know how it feels to have cancer? You look pretty healthy to me."

"My… my mother has a cancerous tumor on her liver. She's in the late stages, I… I barely even recognize her anymore."

"Oh, yeah? So how's that chemo working out for her then, Doc?" I couldn't help but smile inside as his face took on that little haunted look I love so much. It may be shooting the messenger but what the hell – beggars can't be choosers, right? "In answer to your question: yes, I still want to refuse the treatment."


	2. Chapter 1

**¿-? Chapter One ¿-?**

"_The seasons don't fear the Reaper. Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain. We could be like they are. Come on, baby, don't fear the Reaper" ~ Blue Öyster Cult._

I hold no illusion that chemotherapy kills cancer. It only stunts it – and makes you sick in the process. I have no desire to postpone my death and make what remains of my life unbearable. I want to prevent it entirely.

As a man of the mind, I hold no faith in the supernatural. I believe only when I am presented with sufficient evidence. There are no distant deities that judge me, no depraved demons dwell within my conscience. However, when suddenly faced with one's own impending mortality, much can change. Two names, one theme reoccur within my thoughts as I ponder my options: Ra's al Ghul. The Lazarus Pit. Potential immortality. Ra's, Lazarus, Immortality.

Question: if I were a Lazarus Pit, where would I hide?

There are certain aspects of history that have never ceased to intrigue me. Nothing like the rebuses and wordgames I base my life's work on, these riddles of past civilizations are far too intricate, far too complex. Even for those who devote their entire careers to solving them, let alone a lowly thief such as myself, regardless of my IQ. I pride myself on being the one-and-only Riddler. There is no code I cannot crack, no rebus I cannot decipher, no clue I cannot break.

Answer: Egypt – a land of endless riddles. Pyramids, temples, even a simple obelisk can draw you to a world where the lowliest servant may achieve godhood – no, _immortality_. That's my key word here. Scientists have searched to alleviate cancer ever since its discovery. All they've managed to find thus far is cause after cause, with no cure in sight. I don't want to cure cancer, I want to purge myself of it. But…

A careless soul could easily be lost in such a vast place. A truly wise man such as myself must ask himself "Where the _hell_ do I begin?"

Wait… rewind a bit…

Ra's al Ghul.

Ra – the sun god.

The sun… Ra… Ra's… no, _rise_.

Sun… rise.

But that's not specific enough – the sun rises everywhere. No, not indoors it doesn't.

Riddle me this then, Eddie: Where does the sun rise where it shouldn't?

Answer: Deir El Bahari. It is home to the mortuary temple of Hatshepsut, the most celebrated of Egypt's female pharaohs. An architectural wonder: every year since it was built, the sunrise on the twenty-second of December lights up a relief deep within the temple. The date has yet to change in three-and-a-half _thousand_ years. They must've done something right, wouldn't you say?


	3. Chapter 2

**¿-? Chapter Two ¿-?**

"_I'll follow you if you follow me" ~ Breaking Benjamin_

As it was already the twentieth, I purchased the red-eye ticket. Under the name of Samuel Loyd, of course. Sam Loyd invented the sliding puzzle. You know the ones, cheap enough to find in Christmas crackers. To think that in a hundred years or so someone will probably assume the name Edward Nigma to achieve some dirty deed. That I've achieved that much notoriety whether I live or die, surely must be true immortality.

Taking into account the change in timezones, I just made it to Deir El Bahari with little over an hour and a half before dawn on the twenty second. In about forty-five minutes the temple (aptly named by the Ancients as Djeser-djeseru "Sacred of Sacreds") will be flooded with tourists for this once-a-year phenomenon. Of course, no one is allowed _inside_ the temple during the solstice – how badly would the Egyptologists feel if some giddy tourist cracked Hatshepsut's ultimate riddle before them?

I'm not your average giddy tourist though, am I?

After leaving my carry-on at the hotel, I made it to Hatshepsut's temple with ten minutes to spare. A few straggling schmucks had already gathered around the temple guard rails, I snuck past easily enough, after all it was still dark. A little pre-dawn light stained the horizon but not enough to see by.

A few lights lit the façade for aesthetics. If you've never seen a photograph of Hatshepsut's temple, its entrance is about thirty feet high and split into two long tiered colonnades, the upmost of which is divided by a long ramp. Along the top tier one is welcomed by a line of statues depicting Hatshepsut herself as Osiris. Once you pass under the colonnade, one finds oneself within an outer temple stretching to the cliff face behind.

Deeper into the cliff I made my way, not daring to light my torch just yet lest I be noticed. Tapping my cane before me like a blind man, with my right hand lightly on the ancient wall, I made my way under four more doorways before reaching the inner sanctum. Above each doorway is a square cut into the rock which scientists call 'light boxes'. These allow the sun's rays to light up specific parts of the back wall.

Illuminating the screen on my watch, I found only five more minutes had passed – fifty to go until dawn. To pass the time I ran my hands over the back wall, seeing each carved image in my head. The tale it told was typical for a mortuary temple: the Divine birth of the pharaoh, conceived by the god Amun, built upon the potter's wheel of Knum and attended by Heket. This is not her riddle, I know that much. But it must be here somewhere.

I was briefly startled from my thoughts when the room suddenly filled with a pink glow: the sunrise had begun. I darted to the only cover available to me: pressed against the door frame, out of sight of any sight-seers, I set to watch the little square of rays from the light-box make its way over the relief. As I watched, my attention was drawn to a speck of light that apparently had no origin. Slowly, it waltzed over the lower left-hand corner of the mural where I noticed a faint scrawl of hieroglyphs roughly painted on the wall.

Three cartouches side-by-side, were finely inked with much care. I recognized them instantly: Khufu, Kaefra & Menkaura – the residents of the three Pyramids of Giza. Below their names, scrawled in haste in common hieroglyphs was a short verse: "Forward, Mortal God; Backward, God of Plain." Below this was a fourth cartouche, almost a scribble in itself – no, it was definitely a signature. Upon recent the discovery of Hatshepsut's mummy in the Valley of Kings, it was found that she had died from a form of bone cancer. It now appeared that she, herself was leading me to its cure.


	4. Chapter 3

**¿-? Chapter Three ¿-?**

"_Talk and song from tongues of lilting grace whose sounds caress my ear. But not a word I heard could I relate, the story was quite clear." ~ Led Zeppelin_

Given the three names that preceded it, the answer to Hatshepsut's Riddle came easily to me. Obviously, the 'mortal god' refers to a pharaoh, the 'god of plains' can be none other than a mighty lion. Ergo, the 'forward/backward' must indicate the Great Sphinx.

Back at my hotel room, I attempted to sleep at least until noon but my mind was restless. Over four-and-a-half millennia old, The Sphinx – a riddle set in stone – the perfect hiding place for a Lazarus pit in a civilization where a king ascends to deification upon his death. Unlike its Greek counterpart, the Egyptian sphinx is a guardian rather than a blood-thirsty monster. And deep within its belly my salvation waits. The anticipation was eating me alive.

The taxi drive from Luxor to Giza was long, hot and arduous. I won't bore you with it. tipping the driver two hundred percent (what the hell, I happened to be in very good spirits that day) I hoisted my carry-on over my shoulder and walked through the sand. Why do I have to be so bloody stubborn when it comes to wearing my suit? Winter or no, black trousers, a black shirt, a suffocating tie and stifling gloves in the middle of the Egyptian desert? I guess that proves Arkham will forever be my home. At least my jacket provides adequate shade for my face.

Facing dead-east, the Sphinx is another structure that greets the rising sun. Everything the Egyptians built had a purpose. To think 'coincidence' seems to be forbidden in this land.

Do I go so far as to admit that finding the entrance to the Sphinx was a fluke? The only inscription on the statue is the so-called Dream-Stela on its chest, which merely tells the farytale of Thutmosis IV. According to the Stela, the pharaoh fell asleep next to the buried structure and dreamed that the Sphinx itself commissioned him to restore it to its former glory. No riddles there.

Could the clues be in the temple? No. the temple was built long after the Sphinx, as was the Stela – the Sphinx had already guarded the plain for a thousand years when Thutmosis had his dream. Therefore, the answer must be up there…

I made my way around to the southern side, intending to attempt a climb (climbing the Sphinx? I just recently called an asylum my home. What do you think?). I stood back for a moment, pondering where to begin, unconsciously raising my right hand to my mouth and gnawing on my thumbnail. The setting sun caught the display on my watch and reflected up into the right eye of the Sphinx. A guttural clunk came from the east side, followed by a mechanical thud and an ominous crunch. Oh, shit. I think I just broke one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

Reluctant as I was to see the damage I had done, I made my way back to the front of the structure. The Dream Stela had been pushed to the ground to make way for a yawning doorway and had shattered upon impact. Where it had been cemented to the Sphinx had been seamless. A door that hadn't admitted a soul for nearly five thousand years now stood in its place waiting for me to enter.

The cold, ancient air introduced me to a small entrance chamber. The torchlight revealed the room was bare save for a closed stone door five feet in front of me. There were no carvings, no writings, no statues, no other doors. I pressed my palms to the door to see if there would be any give and let out a nervous chuckle as the slab reacted to my very touch and moved aside.

The passageway it revealed seemed to go on to the end of eternity – the beam from my torch found no rear wall to report back to me. My torch should've been powerful enough to light the length of three Great Sphinxes. On my second step, I felt a stone give under my left foot. My heart skipped a few beats as I waited for impending death. Too much Indiana Jones, Eddie. There can't possibly be anything as corny as a movie-style booby trap in this place.

The brand new batteries in my 21st-century torch petered out. In its place, the Sphinx lit two lines of torches for me along the walls of the passage. _It _wanted me to find the Pit, I've no doubt about that now. After everything I've done, every dream I shattered with my greed, every life I swatted because it wouldn't get out of my way… _It_ still seemed to think me worthy.

I was filled with a brand-new sense of confidence as I followed the torches. Every now and again the passage would intersect with another but I could see the unlit torches from the light of the path I was already on. Clearly I was not meant to stray just yet. Eventually, my path became a downward spiral always taking the left path in this endless maze of the Sphinx.

Gradually, I spied paintings carved into the walls of the passage. A generic-looking pharaoh gradually evolved into a scarab beetle. A generic queen grew wings. Another king died three times and was reborn as such. Ra, the Sun; Isis, the Healer; Osiris, the Lord of the Dead. It occurred to me that I was witnessing a retelling of the Ascension of the entire Egyptian pantheon.

At Ma'at, I stopped. As the goddess of Truth, I've always felt a certain kinship with her. The ability to lie was literally beaten from me as a child, twisting my words has always been my only means of deceit. Truth, however vague in it's telling is my one-and-only vice. Oh, Wonder Woman would have a field day with me.

I didn't stop again until the end of the passage, where it seemed I was rooted to the spot: before me, painted on the door to what must be the chamber of the Lazarus Pit, was a final tale of ascension. The men depicted were commoners, appearing to walk toward each other from either side of the door. Gradually, they were depicted evolving down the stone.

Both men wore what appeared to be dyed linen trousers instead of the traditional Egyptian kilt. The man on the right held what the ancients probably thought was a hoe – usually associated with Seth, the God of Chaos. A strange silver headdress covered the visible half of his face.

The left-hand man held a crook in one hand and the kohl around his eyes appeared to be violet. He wore a domed headdress – Or, to be more precise, how the ancients would perceive a bowler hat. I am never mistaken. The man on the left was most definitely me but… who the hell was this other fellow? And what did he have to do with me?

I raised my cane into the torchlight, literally and metaphorically seeing it in a new light. This is what the Ancients thought was a crook – a symbol of kingship in their culture. A symbol of command. And command it did.

The Grating of stone-on-stone, seemed to set off the spread of the firelight from bracket to bracket around the circular room. The colossal chamber's sole decoration was centered precisely and appeared to be made by the hands of neither Man nor Nature. Still, I seemed to be rooted to the spot, paralyzed by pure awe.

After what seemed like a lifetime, I finally found enough courage to walk into the Lazarus Chamber. Once I took that first step, however, I realized I could not stop. The Pit itself, it seemed, had taken over from the Sphinx and was drawing me to it. The further up the steps of the supernatural alter I ascended, the reality, the _fear_, of the Pit set in again. How Doctor Crane would laugh if he could see me now. I could see the smoke rising, the sting of sulphur invaded my nostrils, intense heat warmed my skin that must've been away from the sun now for about thirty hours. I hadn't slept since I'd been on the plane – perhaps, despite all my senses tell me, I'm walking towards a delusion? Perhaps I am_ still_ asleep on the plane, dreaming the surreal.

I remember every moment as though I witnessed rather than experienced. I removed my clothes (enchanted or not, question-mark suits still don't come cheap) and dipped my feet in first. The sulphur was luke-warm, about a hundred degrees. I had expected to be burnt, but simultaneously, I _knew _I wouldn't be. As my body became submerged… Existence, Perception, Life, Death, Creation, Destruction, Science, Mythology… every Force that holds this world and many others in place and intact, entered my body through every pore.

Just so you know, it turns out that Douglas Adams was right: the Ultimate Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything_ is _actually Forty-two. Now, if I were to attempt to explain precisely what that means, your brain would short-circuit, starting a butterfly-effect where you would try to explain it to someone _else _just to get your own head around it, beginning the cycle once again.

All the pieces of every puzzle that ever eluded me fell neatly into place as I lay in a state not unlike death itself, completely immersed in the Lazarus Pit. And the center-most Riddle? Who is Batman, of course. And who else could he be but Bruce Wayne, that goody-two-shoes playboy born with a silver diaper on his ass and a golden teat in his mouth.


	5. Chapter 4

**¿-? Chapter Four ¿-?**

"_I feel just like somebody else. Man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same." ~ the Wallflowers_

Edward Nashton – the Quizmaster, not the Riddler – he's a self-righteous, bastard, isn't he? Where my Ego fuels my greed, his fills him with the desire to Right wrongs in a world where Wrong is Right. My counter-part carved into the door… the Pit showed him to me. He and I are two halves of one soul, symmetrical yet asymmetrical. That is why we are carved facing each other in the stone. But he has yet to fulfill the final stages of his godhood. He has yet to discover the lust for power within him that will lead him to seek deification. His time will come, I have no doubt of that. But now it is mine.

One hundred hours precisely. That's how long it took for me to heal in the Lazarus Pit. I am not hungry, thirsty or tired when I emerge though I have not eaten, drunken or slept since the flight. I am _reborn_ just as the Gods Themselves were so many millennia ago. My skin is dry, soft and clean. The back of my skull, where a week ago a tumor lay silently beneath like a proximity mine waiting to be tread on, had ceased it's constant throbbing. My clothes lay folded where I had thrown them as though an ethereal chambermaid had been in while I 'slept'.

My reflection greeted me from a full-length mirror that probably found its way into the Chamber the same way my clothes had found a way to fold themselves. I saw myself not as I normally would - the man before me was neither Edward Nigma nor Edward Nashton. He was The Riddler. I had never considered my persona to be a whole other personality from myself – that's Harvey Dent's mentality. The Riddler and Ed Nigma have always existed as one, from the moment they were both born. I never had a reason to consider them as separate entities.

The reflected-Riddler grinned and pointed towards my suit, completely independent from me. As I obeyed, I heard him, felt him jeer "Attaboy, Eddie!" His voice so unlike and yet exactly the same as my own, thudding in my ears, echoing in my mind, freezing my very core. I dressed, purposely leaving the mask off and returned to the mirror – obviously I was meant to confront him. "Much better. But you gotta cover those ugly green eyes of yours…" His grin hadn't left his face.

"No." I replied shortly.

"Wassamatta, Eddie Spaghetti? Afraid of becoming me for good? Afraid of you _true_ self?"

"I said no."

"And I say _do it_!"

"You don't command me, I _own_ you."

"_Wrong_, buddy! Ever since you hacked into that crossword puzzle you surrendered yourself to the _Riddler_. Little Eddie Nashton is _dead_. Nigma killed him to make way for me! And I'm here to _stay_."

Something the so-called Riddler said earlier suddenly stuck me as odd (Y'know, _despite_ the fact that he was a reflection and shouldn't've been talking in the first place): he had mentioned _fear_. "Scarecrow," even to my own ears it sounded like a summon.

"What?" at least it shut the bastard up for a moment.

"The Riddler doesn't play on Fear, Scarecrow does."

"What's your point?"

"I'm not schizophrenic either, that's Two-face's gimmick. Come on, 'Riddler'! Who do you want me to be next? Harley fucking Quinn? _You're_ not the Riddler – _I AM_!"

"Say it again…" he hissed after a low, guttural laugh.

"I am the Riddler. Not you," I whispered, stooping to pick up my cane.

"Louder."

"I am the Riddler," swinging the cane from my right hand to my left.

"You can do better than that. What would your father say if he saw you now? You're a _god_ for fuckssake, even if it is only temporary. Say it like you _mean_ it."

"I, am the _GOD. DAMN. RIDDLER!_" I took a swing with each of the last three syllables, rendering the mirror to silver dust.

He had to get in one last jeer as he faded: "Ha-ha-ha, you passed, bro'. Pity about the bad luck, though, eh?" Now that I think of it, I suppose I would, too.


	6. Chapter 5

**¿-? Chapter Five ¿-?**

"_Lets make a deal… or I'll hurt you, ya know." ~Headless Chickens_

"Mr. Wynne? The doctor is ready to see you, now."

It felt as though the Pit had worked its wonders, but I had to know for certain. Philadelphia looked different to when I was here last, brighter somehow despite the clouds. Deep down, I knew it was just me – my entire world looked different now, even Gotham would look like a paradise when I returned.

"Ah, Arthur," he greeted me from behind his desk. "You look… different."

"I've had a spot of R-and-R. You know, just to help put everything into perspective."

"Mind if I ask where?"

"Samoa – absolutely stunning this time of year," I grinned. This is it… the moment of truth.

He quickly switched from his friendly-chat-over-coffee façade and lifted the cardboard envelope from his desk. "These scans of yours, Mr. Wynne…" he raised the flap and delicately pulled out the film. "I must say, as clichéd as it sounds, that I have never seen anything like this. Hardly more than a week ago, your scans showed a tumor the size of a golf-ball. But now, well… take a look for yourself."

What am I, a hailstorm all of a sudden? I thought as he handed me three MRI films. As I held them up to the fluorescent lights feigning interest, he continued.

"As you can clearly see, Arthur, the cancerous tissue has completely disappeared – vanished, with absolutely no trace that it ever existed. Your blood is also clean, white and red cell counts are back to normal. You, sir, if I may say, are a genuine medical miracle."

"It can't be all that simple," acting as though this was news to me. "You're certain these scans are mine?"

"Says so right there in the corner: 'Wynne, A.'"

An idea suddenly clicked into place: didn't his mother have some sort of cancer? A renowned medical professional like him must be loaded… how much do you think I could barter for his soul?

I leaned forward in the chair, resting my elbows on the desktop. "Say, Doc, have you ever heard the term 'Lazarus Pit' before?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" he seemed a tad startled at the sudden change in topic.

"Obviously not," I smiled. "Allow me to explain, then, Tommy – Can I call you Tommy? Great. A Lazarus Pit – quite possibly the Eighth Wonder of the World – can restore health to the ill, purity to the tainted, even life to the DEAD."

"A myth, you mean," naturally he looked at me as though I was crazy but I'm not here to dispute _that_ particular detail.

"About as mythical as a medical miracle, Tommy. Living breathing proof walked into your office about seven minutes ago. Lazarus Pits exist and I found one. Is that so hard to wrap around your PhD? The uncurable is cured. My cancer is gone… POOF! Zapped from existence and all I had to do was take a _bath_. Here's my question for you, Tommy: do you want in on my little secret?"

Dr. Elliott seemed to ponder this for a moment before answering shortly and changing the subject once again:

"No, not particularly," he sighed, tell you what, though Mr. Nigma,"

"Wynne," I almost missed the use of my real name. In fact, I probably would have had I not still been under the effects of the Pit.

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Nigma. I know precisely who you are. There is a perfectly good medical facility that specializes in the treatment of cancer in Gotham City, why would you come all the way to Philly? There are no Arthur Wynnes registered in Gotham, I checked. There is, however, a certain criminal recently released from Blackgate Penitentiary on a medical permit. You didn't want anyone to suspect you had sparkly new weakness, did you, _Riddler_."

For the first time in a while, I was actually speechless. I couldn't keep denying after the truth was uncovered – I am a slave to it. He had me in a tight corner… but even the weakest of creatures will fight a bloody battle when there is no other way to turn. The door was closed, and being a private practice it was also sound-proofed. There was no chance of the conversation being overheard. All I could hope for was to return the conversation to my favour and keep it there.

"Now, as I was saying, _Mister Nigma_, is that there may be something you can do for me. Riddle me this," he sneered the phrase, making a mockery of my vice, "how much do you know about Bruce Wayne?"

I'm pretty sure I stopped breathing for a moment as a black, pointed cowl flashed across the back of my mind. Surrounded by coincidence… this Demi-god thing's gonna take a bit of getting used to.

"A little," I grinned. "Why do you ask?"

"He… owes me something," Elliott answered vaguely, hoping I wouldn't pursue the matter just yet.

In truth, I didn't need to. The old saying goes that a picture says a thousand words. If that's the case, then a _voice_ paints a thousand pictures. Thomas Elliott's voice that day painted a masterpiece in red, green and black. A Van Gogh of anger, envy and death.

Thomas Elliott, an erstwhile mild-mannered doctor from Philadelphia, wanted revenge on none other than Bruce 'the Batman' Wayne. Now… if I can twist my words _just_ right…

"You want Bruce Wayne, dead?" I chortled into my scotch. "Impossible. Man can't die – law of nature or something."

Removed from his office and his labcoat, Thomas Elliott is a monster of a man. Approximately six-feet five, broad-shouldered and square-jawed, he had the air of a man who would crush a newborn kitten with his pinky and not bat an eyelid. This was a kid who never had to hide from his peers during recess no matter how hard he studied, no matter how insatiable his thirst for knowledge. This was the kid Edward Nashton would avoid at all costs.

Eddie _Nigma_, on the other hand… this is the sort of kid Eddie Nigma – had he existed then – would've sweet-talked into being his bodyguard day-after-day.

The private office in his penthouse held little to indicate that its occupant's wealth was more than that of your average GP. Medical books – some recent, some old, one-or-two dating back to the early seventeenth century – stocked a mahogany bookcase on the southern wall. A walnut liquor cabinet half-hid in a corner next to the eastern window where one could loose oneself in a sunset soaked in _Glenfiddich_. The central desk was of some exotic timber, perhaps rimu or kauri, imported from a far-off land. One would have to possess a keen eye to notice this doctor's extensive wealth.

"Impossible?" he sounded astonished as he offered me a Cuban cigar from his desk. He tossed me a Zippo and continued: "death avoids no one, Mr. Nigma, I know that better than anyone. What makes you say Bruce Wayne is immortal?"

"Because I've killed him before," I replied, dragging on the cigar.

"You lost me, Riddler."

"Of course I did, it's my gift," I grinned.

"How can you help me kill him then if he's already dead?"

"I never said he was dead…"

"You said you killed him, and I can only presume that even in a shithole like Gotham, that means you made him not live anymore, ergo, he must be dead."

"I never said he was dead," I repeated, "I said 'I killed him.' That doesn't mean the fucker stayed that way."

Elliott buried his fingers in his hair for a moment, gave an exasperated sigh, rose from his chair and drew his face close to mine. "I don't have time for word-games, Nigma. Either talk straight or get out."

I shook my head and smiled. "You need me," I whispered through my teeth. "You don't need to discard your dreams of vengeance just because you're too stupid to comprehend a word I say. All you need to do is listen: Bruce Wayne cannot die because he is – are you sure you're ready for this, Tommy? If I were you I'd sit back down right about now – _he_ is _Batman_."


	7. Chapter 6

**¿-? Chapter Six ¿-?**

"_Define the riddles of my mind. Nothing is really what it seems" ~P.O.D._

The first thing I did when I got back to my hotel room was change my IP address so that I could hack into the Arkham Asylum and Blackgate Pennitentiary databases.

Arkham was child's play – I've done it so many times before and they have yet to update their internet security. The administration password was still EJLEIRZEAMBIEATHH – the inter-woven names of 'Jeremiah' and 'Elizabeth'.

Who's in, who's out is what I want to know – Michelangelo didn't start David with a pebble he found in his garden, did he? Huh, Dr. Hugo Strange was released last Tuesday – friends in high places, I presume. Jervis Tetch – due for release in two weeks. Hmm… his mind-control implants could be useful but what's to say he won't use it on me? No, too risky. Joker escaped last month, surprise surprise – and it looks as though he took the lovely Doctor Quinzel with him this time. It seems those morons can't hold him for more than an hour. Pamela Isley's out on probation – I suppose she's learnt anything else would look too suspicious. Same with Jonathan Crane… hmm… if I had Jonny on my side he could scare Pammy into sparing me a taste of her fine pheromones. That might deserve some looking into but I'll leave the Arkham files be for now: I need some muscle…

Blackgate, however, has been a tad more vigilant in the upkeep of their cyber-security, changing the administrator's password every Friday, Monday and Wednesday. As luck would have it, the moment I cracked into their intranet, someone kindly typed 'bloodsteelandanironfist' into the password box for me. Fitting, I suppose for such a high-security facility. I left the window idle until they logged out, killing time by reading a couple of chapters of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein. Whoever it was wasn't online for long and I was able to jump into their intranet after only six pages.

Victor Szasz was in. Good. The last thing I want right now is to become another tally-mark on his chest. Hell, I didn't think he'd have any room left by now. Arthur Brown was released last month – don't get me started on _that_ wannabe. Cluemaster, my arse – he'll never make the authorities work for the hunt like I do. Garfield Lynns… hmmm… nah. As much as I'd love to torch Pammy's sanctuary – maybe another day. Julian Day: too crazy – NEXT! Seriously, Otis Flannegan? What would a genius like me do with an army of rats? Surely you'd think they'd've shifted that nut to Arkham by now. Antonio Diego – now we're talking. But he isn't going up for parole for another three years. Hey, Johnny Williams is out in a fortnight. He's relatively new to the Clayface game but I think I have the right carrot to dangle in front of that ass's nose. Ohhh, Waylon Jones could make a very good Bane substitute. Ohhh… better idea: about a decade ago, Bane decided to use me as a guinea pig to test his new Venom. Just remembering what that stuff did to me gives me the chills: not even bullets could stop me. I was Superman on a power-trip. If I could just get a hold of that concoction, even a mere duplicate of it, each punch Killer Croc pulls will get it's own reading on the Richter Scale. That settles it: I need to get a hold of Dr. Crane first – I hear he has a way with Chemistry.

"Tell me what I want to hear," Thomas Elliott answered on the first ring – it seemed he'd been waiting for me to call.

"You want Bruce Wayne dead," I replied shortly. "Let me tell you something about Batman, Tommy: one cannot simply put a bullet in his brain. He must be lured, _manipulated_, into a carefully assembled trap. On top of that, if you leave him to his Fate, he will find a way to escape. If you think you can kill him, go ahead and try. No amount of professional respect for him on my part will make me stop you. I know for a fact it cannot be done… not by me, at least. What I _can_ do for you, however, is _give_ him to you."

"What's the catch?"

"Catch? What makes you think there's a catch?"

"You're the Riddler, everyone in the country knows your face, what you do. What's your price?"

"A long time ago I'd have given you a fee. Mmm… hundred-and-fifty mill maybe, give-or-take a quarter of a billion. Plus expenses. I haven't been in it for the money in a long time, though – after all it's only paper, money can't buy happiness and all that. No… I do it for the Game and the Game alone. You've presented me with a challenge, Tommy. A dare to top any other, and I, Edward Nigma, accept said challenge."

"How long will it take? By the sound of it, this won't happen overnight."

"Baby-steps, Tommy, baby-steps. We'd need a plan so intricate, _everything_ must go by my design, including the unpredictable. Every piece must play its part _precisely_, nothing can be left to chance – _nothing_."

Elliott must've heard my smile through my voice. "You've thought of something, haven't you?"

"I have billions of eyes yet I live in darkness, I have millions of ears yet only four lobes, I have no muscle yet I rule two hemispheres…"

Being a surgeon, the answer came easily to him – just as I knew it would: "The brain."

"Very good, doctor," hoping he couldn't hear the sarcasm in my voice. "And if you know how to push the right buttons, pull the right strings, you can make someone else's brain do what ever _you_ want."

"How can you be so sure that just anyone can be manipulated?"

"Trust me, doc, everyone has an Achilles' Heel. All we have to do is figure out what it is, then figure out the most effective way to exploit it."

"And how do you propose we do that?"

"Jonathan Crane…" for all I knew, I had said the name to myself, unknowingly at the time, I had said it in the exact same manner I'd uttered the name of his alias back inside the Sphinx.

"Who?"

"The Scarecrow," I elaborated. "Back in the day, he was a psychology professor. Fired a gun in one of his lectures – he'd told the kids it wasn't loaded but the _fear_ that it was would still be there. Of course, it was loaded with blanks but the kids didn't know that when they heard the report. He scared the crap out of 'em, proved his point _and_ got himself fired all in one moment. Jonathan Crane can profile everyone for me, find out what we need to know to turn them into our puppets. Once we find out what everyone can do for us, we can go on from there."

"How do you know Crane will do it?"

"Knowledge is his vice. I've known Jonny since I first set foot in Arkham. I was in the minimum security wing my first time and even the inmates there picked on him. He did his best to stay out of their way but they still came for him every now-and-again. I broke up a bout that nearly killed him and it ended up being my 'Good Behavior' ticket out. He still thinks he owes me."


	8. Chapter 7

**¿-? Chapter Seven ¿-?**

"_Can't you satisfy your greed? Get what you need. Was it only envy? So empty." ~ Soul Asylum_

Look at all the pretenders… Wannabes, all of them. Thieves without a clue where the real money lies strike aimlessly at any till that looks easy enough; serial killers, who have no way to slate their hunger, leave their prey an unsightly mess; fraudsters who think they're a whiz in Photoshop secure their folly by printing everything on plain Xerox paper. Every one of them leaving behind vital forensic evidence like it was Silly-string at the office Christmas 'do. Where are the theatrics? The call to challenge? These days, they all get caught on their first heists, their first kills. Gotham villains have forgotten their heritage. No… more importantly: they've forgotten the _Game_. The Joker would be turning in his straight-jacket – that's if they can keep it on him long enough to cut the blood-flow to his arms.

I will _make_ them remember their roots… set the bar higher for the charlatans. Screw the Gotham Times, my scheme will send my name to international headlines. Criminal profilers will write books in attempt to understand me, perhaps even a biopic film inspired by the exploits of one Edward 'the Riddler' Nigma.

When I say that masterminding a plan is like solving a riddle I'm not just fuelling my own ego. You present yourself with a seemingly impossible problem. You can wrack your brain for hours, days, weeks even, and still not come up with an answer. Until you find that one piece. One _dire_ piece is all it takes for the rest to fall into place like chocolate in a mold. This time, that piece was Jonathan Crane, alias The Scarecrow. Question: Why did I not ask Dr Quinzel to do the profile work? After all, she was once a psychiatrist at Arkham. Answer: because I don't just want these minds profiled, I want them _dissected_. As a one-time psychology professor, Dr Crane made his living dissecting minds for the sake of his protégés.

"Eddie! What have you done this time?"

"What gives you that idea, old buddy?"

"You'd never call me this late unless you'd somehow found yourself up shit-creek and you need to borrow a paddle. I'm breaking my parole just accepting this call so make it quick."

"Alright then, but just so you know, I haven't done anything… yet."

"It had to be one or the other. What do you want?"

"A favour, pretty simple for someone of your capabilities but I wouldn't have a clue where to begin."

"Flattery gets you nowhere, Ed," I heard him sigh. "But, why do I get the feeling that I'm the only person who you'd admit to being stumped?"

"So, being my confidant isn't good enough all of a sudden? All I need you to do is find out a few weaknesses for me. In _people_, not vaults."

"Who's?"

"I have a little list… I'll send it to you through the Network page."

"Alright, anything else?"

"Not at the moment, but I think you'll find the names intriguing enough on their own. Catch you later, Jonny. Stay outta trouble."

"Shouldn't I be saying that?" I heard him utter as I placed the handset back in its cradle.

G.U.N. is a networking site set up by me that only a select few of Gotham's elite criminals are a part of. Each page is automatically encoded one-tenth of a second before it is even submitted, eliminating sniffers from the likes of Google and Yahoo!, even the Government's highest quality search engines overlook its critical information. I logged in long enough to send Crane my list, saw the name ArleenFenn – aka, Harley Quinn – in the 'online' column and quickly logged out again before she could send me one of her annoying private messages. Honestly, why the hell did Joker have to insist I invite her into the Network? Within five minutes, I received a short text message from Jonathan: "I'll do it." I knew I could count on you, I smiled to myself.

How long would it take for Jonathan to finish the profiles? Already I was getting impatient: I longed for the moment when I could call Batman 'Bruce' to his face just to see him lose his cocky composure in the time it takes to utter that one syllable. Ah, but true genius cannot be rushed… I will have to be patient, no matter how often I saw that smug square jaw of his melt in shock deep within my Third Eye. Oh, yes… my moment will come, Dark Knight, and the bravest man shall fear the hallowed name of The Riddler. I could see it all unfold as I dreamed that night: the greatest heroes and villains of both Gotham and Metropolis will kneel before me one by one like dominoes. All in the name of Edward Nigma.

* * *

I slept uneasily, not even closing my eyes until 3am. Typically, I awoke at 9:30 with only half an hour before checkout time and my plane home left in another hour. As I hastily packed my laptop and secondary suit, the phone next to the bed chirruped and I almost jumped out of my skin. I would've left it but for my gut telling me it would be Elliott on the other end.

"Nigma, what have you got for me this morning?"

So much for the first-name-basis. "A start, nothing more. Look, I'll ring you when I get back to Gotham, I have to be out of here in five minutes."

"Just give me two."

I checked my watch, "I don't have two."

"You just said you have five."

Shit, I though doctors were supposed to be smart. "Figure of speech," I answered with an exasperated sigh, "I'll ring you from the plane, then if it's so urgent." Without waiting for his next protest, I hung up and half-ran out the door. Almost forgetting my cane as I went, I reached in and grabbed it from where it leaned before the door shut behind me for good.

What the hell had I been thinking accepting such a task? Sure, I've pulled Batman's strings before – it wasn't hard either: when I said 'jump' he already knew how high. But… something back then had been different. I had been further from myself, further from little Edward Nashton than I'd ever been before the Lazarus Pit. Perhaps _that_ was the same Riddler I saw when I awoke within the Sphinx; not the Riddler at all, but another _entity_ wearing him like a shell. Perhaps that was his message: in order to fulfill my final Destiny, I had to become Him once again.

* * *

Half-an-hour from Philadelphia in a private cabin, arrive at Gotham in time for the lunch-rush at the airport's McDonald's… and a painstaking phone-call from Thomas Elliott to last the trip. Yeah, you can tell I'm really looking forward to it.

"So where's the fire?" I asked as soon as Elliott answered. At the same time I was logging into G.U.N. Good: Harley was gone. In her place was one HenryMurphy – Jonathan Crane. [waiting for me?] I messaged him.

"You need to learn not to do that," Elliott sounded a bit miffed that I'd hung up on him at the hotel. [Naturally, Gorsh.] crane replied. [It looks like you've picked everyone by their abilities.] [May I ask what you have in mind?]

"You're in no position to threaten me, Tommy, but I'll let that slide for now." [you're looking at it] "What do you want?" [that list is just a start] [a way to see what i have to work with] [why so curious, murph?]

"I want to know where all this is headed, what you're getting me into." [In simple curiosity not an answer in itself, Gorsh?] [I can see this will be a Means.] [But to what End?]

"The ultimate death of Bruce Wayne, as agreed." [the death of batman] [with a sprinkling of humiliation just to make it all worth it] […] [you want in don't you]

"And we can't just do it outright because…?" [Am I that easy to read?]

"Because a man in his er, _vocation_, is forever on his guard. We'd need to knock him off a bit first." [yes, murph, you are] "Draw his attention, bat him around a bit, utterly _fuck_ with his head." [i think i can find a place for you] "Have you ever watched a cat playing with a mouse, Tommy? When I was a kid, I once saw an old tom bat around a wild mouse until every bone in its body was broken. When the mouse could no longer move, the cat got bored and just left it to an agonizing death. I – uh, _we_ – need to be that cat." The tiny trickle just hit half-a-mile of rapids. [gtg, murph] [i'm on a roll] [catch up when i get home]

" 'Draw his attention'? Like a robbery or something?"

"No… too cliché, too small. Think BIG, Tommy."

"A museum heist?"

"Bigger. More personal."

" 'Personal'? As in a kidnapping?"

"_Now_ you're with me, Tommy!"

"Anyone in mind?"

"Hmmm… someone high up but not from WayneTech – I don't want Batsy to think the job is local. Maybe Metropolis – whatzitcalled – LexCorp."

* * *

_ANs: ** the screennames for the Gotham Underground Network are all taken from actors (voice as well as live) who portrayed each character. Eddie's full screenname is "JimGorshin"_  
_** my sincerest apologies if that last conversation/s had you confused: I couldn't think of any other way to show Eddie having two conversations at once :P_


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